cherubim

She wishes to fade away, to be less than nothing, unborn. A leaf on a tree in late October, falling to the shadowy earth, devoured by the mud of the murmuring forest floor.

At dinner she sits across from the smiling man. Later they retreat to a larger room that is flooded by honey-colored light where he reads from the book, moving from life to death, from lead to gold. Light ning strikes the corner of his blinking eye, the twitch of his crooked smile. He warns her of saintly heroes, how she must fight against all temptation, live in his light to hear the angelic chime of bells that summon her to kneel and remain beside his benevolent being.

At dusk he takes her hand and leads her through a wooded path to an arbor where she must undress for she is not pure and he is good and wise and knows all holy things. An invisible cherubim takes her hand and leads her back through the same woods to the house, high on the hill, it’s madness and despair sleeping. The squirrels, birds, and white tail deer know fear and hide away.

“Lighting strikes the corner of his blinking eye, the twitch of his crooked smile. ” Your descriptive writing takes the reader into the story, the images flashing across my own vision, as she trembles knowing what is to come.
“At dusk he takes her hand and leads her through a wooded path to an arbor where she must undress for she is not pure and he is good and wise and knows all holy things. “…..
I wonder who is the good and holy!..
And this wonderful piece of fiction conjures up those who use their power and holiness to control ..
Wonderful writing Holly… I love your style and inventiveness.. Wishing you a lovely weekend to come my friend.. ❤
Take care… and Much LOVE. ❤

I was shivering from head to toe. Dark and frightening, Holly, right from the first line to the last. Gothic as other comments have noted, but with tones of such deep abuse, numbing and surreal. Powerful, powerful writing.

A woman under the rule of a man is not a person. She is chattel, a chandelier who knows how to wash floors in HIS home.
Fuck him! He is the one who is not pure, a whore of the devil in his mind and heart.
He shall undress in the wild and not not be eaten by vicious wild beasts, because they know how disgusting he tastes.
Naked, he will perish in the winter of his life.

You are the Woman Warrior! You are the spirit who shall not be daunted by male chauvinism.
Your boots are made for more than walking, they are made for stomping… spiking their heels into the minds & heartless of men who intimidate, beat, rape, murder and worse.
This woman, who you epitomize, shall be drawn of sword by my pencil. XO

Time for new poetic ground? You could do a really hot and sweaty sonnet, if you wanted to! 🙂 Or so intricate that you and your word choices would blast the whole thing into a new level of art form! 🙂 …Or whatever feels right to try…! You got the solid, overflowing talent, my dear

Wow! This one lets us see and feel her pain and at that moment of contrition, where the dignity is sacrificed to the sin, her mind takes flight in the care innocence. Vivid, raw, and done with the utmost care.

What a beautiful thing to say as a warrioress to an old warrior. The true warrior prays for peace and good will because she or he knows there is no glory in combat except for those who were not there that claim the warrior’s victory for their own. I can see you as her. You have the calm presence of experience, the deep introspection and reflection of the past, and the collective wisdom of centuries all expressed in poetry of exquisite exactness. This is also a trait of the most skilled warrioress through the ages. I sought refuge from conflict in flowers. I call them the Warrior’s Mistress and my garden is blessed by countless blooms to soothe the awful pain of those times when peace and goodwill failed and my duty called upon. Your battles may be different, but your noble status does not change. 🌸🌼